


We wander in the night, and are consumed by fire.

by Zenaga



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenaga/pseuds/Zenaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.</i> A series of long drabbles examining the dynamic between the bastard Alayne Stone and her father Petyr, as it is revealed in the solitude of darkness. Some parts will contain explicit sexual acts, others will not. Rating will change as it is deemed necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We wander in the night, and are consumed by fire.

It is past midnight when Alayne wakes, shaken from her slumber by troubled dreams. It is not uncommon for such things to happen, although they happen less frequently now than when she was in King’s Landing, where the risk of death is seemingly much more immediate. The air is cold in her chambers, and she shivers, pulling the blankets tighter around her. Ghosts of dead men and women often walk in her dreams, chilling her to the bone even as she sleeps. She closes her eyes tightly, wishing the images of severed heads and red wine choking past worm-lips to leave her be, but they stay, and she realizes that sleep will not come.

Alayne continues to lie in her bed for a long time before she slips out from under her covers and dons a cloak. Unlocking the door to her chambers and pulling it open, it creaks loudly in the dead silence of the castle. She does not feel nervous, as she might have on one of the nights earlier on in her stay at the Eyrie. She knows that within these walls, she is in no danger - for now, at least. The air in the hall is even colder than in her chambers, and her bare toes tingle unpleasantly against the stone floor as she moves silently towards her destination. She reflects that she must seem very much like Sweetrobin when he creeps into her bed, looking for a parent lost. He has not come to her chambers for quite some time, having seemed to developed some form of independence, but Alayne still seeks Petyr’s bed when the night is too cold and the memories are too sad.

Passing by a row of windows, her path is illuminated by unobscured moonlight, a rare occurrence as winter draws closer. She can see her breath fogging before her as she walks, and words familiar and yet foreign cross her mind. _Winter is coming._ A shiver creeps down her spine, and she hurries, nearly running down the hall, her feet slapping against the stones until she shifts her weight onto her toes. The path to Petyr’s chambers is one that she knows well, and before long, she is standing outside his door, far colder than she had been when lying still in her room. She goes to knock, but upon seeing no light creeping under the door, she simply pushes it open and slips into the room, silent save for the creaking of the hinges.

She does not see him in his solar, as she expects, so she creeps her way to his bedchamber door, pushing it open. She sees him there, sleeping quietly, only his head uncovered. Rubbing her upper arms, she quietly moves towards his bed, stopping when she is within arm’s reach. She stands there for a while, shivering violently as she watches him sleep, his face serene. She likes seeing him like this, kind, vulnerable. He looks much more like the man who had helped her build Winterfell out of snow, and much less like the man who pushed her aunt out of the Moon Door.

Slowly, she reaches out, fingers grasping his shoulder as she gently shakes him. His eyes flicker open more quickly than she expects, and she nearly jumps back in alarm. A sleepy smile curls at the corner of his lips as he sees her, and it falters for a moment when he sees her shivering. “Oh dear,” he drawls out. “Sweetling, you look cold. Come here.” Lifting the covers, he grasps Alayne’s hand to beckon her in. Nodding, she quickly unclasps her cloak and lets it fall to the ground. She clambers in swiftly, her body molding to Petyr’s almost naturally. His arms encircle her, pulling her closer, and she can feel her shivering start to subside. “Silly girl, wandering out of your rooms at night,” he says absently into her hair, his hand rubbing her back languidly.

“I was cold and I couldn’t sleep,” she replies, nuzzling into the warmth of his neck. It is much warmer in Petyr’s bed than hers. Her hands curl into fists around the fabric of his nightshirt, and she inhales the smell of him, a mixture of the mint that he chews and the body scent that accumulates on him after a long day. It’s not a wholly pleasant smell, but she likes it. It smells human, safe. She closes her eyes, drowsiness overcoming her.

When she dreams in Petyr’s bed, the thoughts that plague her are darker, full of death, yet somehow warmer and more comforting. She dreams of a frozen throne in the dead of Winter, the icy seat biting at her thighs through her gown, but she is as powerful and unrelenting as the ice and snow that pounds upon the castle. She _is_ the Winter. Petyr sits to her side, nose pink and eyes weary, a reflection of just how unsuited he is to northern life. But still he sits, as loyal as he can be, her beloved Hand. She smiles softly at him before turning to the room beyond her throne. Her subjects are there, adoring of her in her quiet brutality. The heads of dead southerners adorn the walls, a reminder of the queen’s fury - the heads of Lannisters. The throne room is cold, but yet it is ablaze with righteous fury, and nothing will stand in her way any longer. She is Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, and Winterfell is hers once more.

When Alayne wakes in Petyr’s bed, the warmth of her anger is abated, and the hardness of her paternal caregiver pressing into her stomach serves as a reminder that she is not a queen, and that she is not in Winterfell. The Eyrie is a far cry from home, and she is but a lowly bastard. She is reminded of this as Petyr sleepily trails kisses down her neck, his hands wandering up her shift. Although his touches are pleasurable, Alayne finds that she cannot allow herself to remember who she really is while in his bed. As his fingers find their way between her thighs, she lets out a gasp, arching into him. He lets out a low moan, and she feels heat pooling in her belly. “The sounds you make are positively regal, Sweetling.” Her eyes flutter open, and her fingers dig into his back.

Not the Queen in the North, but the Queen in Petyr’s Bed. Craning her head, Alayne plants a kiss on Petyr’s neck. Just for a while, she feels her ambitions put aside, and she simply allows herself to enjoy the feel of Petyr’s stubble on her collarbone. Winterfell is already burned to the ground - she can wait a little longer.


End file.
